First of all, thank you all for reading! I've gotten a lot of amazing responses and I'm so happy. This chapter is written from Mycroft's p.o.v, so we'll see how that works out. Please tell me what you think! Love /Willows

Chapter 6

Mycroft Holmes considered himself a man of many things. Caution was one of them. He always made sure to do regular and detailed check-ups on his staff, and there were nothing that missed his trained eyes. People did well in not lying to him, because he would know in seconds. It wasn't just his staff that were victims of Mycroft's extreme measures of precaution. Everyone in his, and most importantly Sherlock's, life had a personal file in his archive. It was extremely important that he knew about everyone who came in contact with Sherlock, and even those who just moved in the periphery of his narrow circle of social contacts had been thoroughly researched, such as the owner of the tobacco store where Sherlock bought his cigarettes or the mailman who delivered his post. If anyone had anything to hide or an ulterior motive regarding Sherlock, Mycroft made sure to take care of it. Sherlock did know about the safety measures, but Mycroft rather hoped he didn't know exactly to what extent they went. Sherlock didn't like when Mycroft "interfered with his life", as Sherlock had told him repeatedly. Mycroft didn't care, it was in his nature to worry, and despite Sherlock being an ignorant and rude moron, he was his brother and he would do anything, anything, to keep him safe.

It was why he now found himself flipping through the personal file of one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. It was a rather thick folder that had been delivered to him that very morning, and he found himself eagerly soaking up the most personal details about the man in question. He didn't quite know why he had found Lestrade so very interesting, but even from the first moment he heard about him he was intrigued. This was a competent and highly respected police at Scotland Yard who hadn't just let Sherlock help with cases, but had also treated him with kindness. He even seemed to care about Sherlock. That alone had been enough for Mycroft to direct his attention towards him, but now that they had met twice in person, the second time only last week, he was even more determined to know what made Lestrade such a remarkable person. He scanned through the pages, read some paragraphs and skipped some, and all the while he had a feeling that it was something in particular that he searched for though he couldn't tell what it was. He flipped some more pages and read some more paragraphs, some which made him smile and some which surprised him. But it wasn't until he turned to page 43 that he found what he had subconsciously been looking for.

Acquaintances and relationships:

Current status: Married. Wife – Elaine Lestrade (former Johnson).

Longer relationships: Marley Winston (6 months)

Joanna West (13 months)

Hannah Krueger (8 months)

Jonathan Mills (10 months)

Mycroft's breath hitched when he read the name Jonathan Mills and a little bit annoyed at himself he understood that it was that he'd been looking for. He kept scanning the page, and following the longer relationships was a small list of one-night stands and sure enough, apart from three women were there seven men. Okay so he had obviously had relationships both with men and women, that was a fact. It was also a fact that he was married, and seeing as there were nothing in the file about the state of the marriage, Mycroft had to assume that it was a happy one. He shouldn't care about that at all. Why would he? But something in his stomach suddenly felt very heavy.

He closed the folder and put it aside. As he was just about to pack up his things and leave for the night, his secretary knocked once and opened the door. She looked at him seriously and Mycroft felt his heart sink. He knew that look.

"Is it…?"

She nodded. Mycroft swallowed and followed her out the door. It would be a long night.

He got into the waiting car and pulled out his phone. He typed the message but then he sat with his thumb hovering over the 'send' button. Was it really necessary to involve him? He looked out the window and the houses and cars that flew by; he thought about all the times he'd done this, and he surrendered. He pressed the button and his phone sent away the short text consisting of two words.

Danger night. MH

Greg sent his answer within a minute.

I'm on my way. Where is he? GL

Mycroft typed back the location he'd received and it suddenly felt just a little bit easier to deal with whatever was waiting for him. For once, he would not be alone.

He met Greg outside a rough-looking building. They shook hands, glove on glove. He looked tired, Mycroft noted. It wasn't that late yet, and it didn't seem like sleep deprivation. In that case he would have dark circles under his eyes. No, this was something else… perhaps a fight with the wife? It would explain the stiff neck and slightly tightened fists, as if he had left some sort of argument unfinished. Yes, it seemed most likely according to Mycroft. The thought of Greg fighting with his wife made Mycroft strangely happy, and it was just a very small part of him that felt ashamed about it.

He sought Greg's eye, they nodded towards each other and opened the rusty door to the building. Most of the flats seemed empty, but from some of them they heard children screaming and laughing or the unmistakable sound of video games on high volume. The sound of screams and shooting guns followed them up to the fifth floor. The door in front of them seemed as if though it would fall off if someone blew at it, and Greg nudged it open with his foot. Mycroft followed him inside the flat. He dreaded what he would soon witness. He wanted to run out the door, back onto the street and the fresh air, but he forced himself to keep going. It smelled strongly of sweat, cigarette smoke and sour milk and Mycroft had to breathe through his mouth. The flat was full of people lying on sofas or sitting on the floor staring into the wall. Some watched them as they passed, but they were mostly ignored. A small girl, no older than eighteen, sat on an armchair rocking back and forth, humming monotonous. An older man sat by the kitchen window lighting matches, and blowing them out again. Mycroft immediately hated everything about this place, from the smell to the people. He hated walking around in his fancy suit and shiny shoes among people who had nothing, and he hated that he didn't even feel guilty about it.

He stopped in front of a closed bedroom door. He knew that Sherlock would be in there, he just knew. And he couldn't bring himself to open it. He didn't want to see. He still had images of the last time etched inside his mind. Greg stopped right behind him, so close that Mycroft could feel his breath on his neck. He felt a hand upon his shoulder.

"It's okay, I'll do it" Greg said, moving in front of Mycroft. He nodded and took a step to the side, grateful for not being the first one to see it. Greg opened the door and Mycroft heard him say "Shit" and then there was movement inside and something that sounded like a glass breaking and then he couldn't stand it anymore. He stepped into the room and he felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. Sherlock lay on a bed, seemingly unconcious. His clothes was in rags and smelled like vomit. There were empty cannulas scattered over the floor and a heap on the floor that Mycroft had first believed to be a pile of clothes suddenly moved and a young man looked up at them from his nest of dirty laundry. He scanned them and seemed to decide they were no threat and fell asleep once again. Mycroft stood frozen in the room and heard only from a distance Greg's voice as he called the ambulance. He was still in this state in the ambulance and when they had arrived to the hospital. He nodded as the doctors talked to him and he signed the papers that were put in his hand, but he didn't register anything. He hadn't even noticed that he wasn't alone until a cup of coffee was put in his hand and Greg's soft voice said "Drink it. Trust me, you need it.".

Mycroft stared at Greg as he took the cup. "Have you been here the whole time?" he asked, his voice thick with surpressed emotions.

"Yeah. You didn't think I'd leave you alone with this, did you? It's a lot to deal with, and judging by the looks of you, you're not really in the state of doing it by yourself."

Mycroft half managed a smile, but inside he felt completely stunned of the kindness and thoughfulness that Greg showed him. He hadn't really done anything to deserve it, but he was grateful beyond words.

They sat in silence for a while sipping their coffee. Eventually the doctor came out and told them that Sherlock would be fine, but that it had been very close this time. Mycroft felt as a bucket of ice had been dumped over his head at this. Had he really been that close to losing Sherlock? How could he have let this happen? He shook his head and took a deep breath, he really needed to get a grip on himself. If he was going to fix this, he couldn't be in pieces. He needed to be strong for Sherlock.

Greg stood up beside him. "I guess you want to see him now. I'm going to leave you two alone, you might have some things to talk about when he wakes up. Will you call me tomorrow to let me know how he is?" he said, his voice carrying concern.

"Of course" Mycroft nodded. Greg smiled but just as he was to walk off Mycroft surprised himself and seized his hand. "Greg I… I just… Thank you. For everything." Greg nodded, but his eyes were fixed upon their locked hands. "It was nothing" he said, but Mycroft felt a small pressure on his hand before it was realeased. It felt oddly empty without the warmth of Greg's hand in it, and as Mycroft watched him walk away, he felt empty too.